


splinters in my knuckles

by espinosas



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Relationship, i guess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 06:06:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12550848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/espinosas/pseuds/espinosas
Summary: The flames took hours to turn to black smoke to white.





	splinters in my knuckles

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!!! 
> 
> This silly little thing was inspired by rereading the aow volumes and watching the premiere. I promise that 'he's a forest fire' will be updated soon. I'm aiming for next week.. at least.

The flames took hours to turn to black smoke to white.

They're at the end drop of the war, the uncertain waters before a cold plummet, and they're not entirely sure if it's safe enough to get up, dust off the dirt from knees with bloodied hands and start over yet. One thing is for sure; Paul knows that winter is on their tails and that it’s going to be increasingly harder to feel their way through ice.

The saviours had left Alexandria as nothing more than a sea of bodies, the Kingdom a desolate wasteland and Hilltop overflowing with their survivors and scorching.

But they had left all the same. Retreated. Negan hadn’t been found after lighting the walls aflame and Rick had punctured a good portion of his calf. He was assumed dead and it was left at that.

They’d gotten Harlan back, somehow, by some absolute fucking miracle. Even more of a miracle was that Eugene had been the reason he lived - kept him safe and got him out with Gabriel’s help. He supposed Eugene had only been doing what the rest of the group had been: surviving. He couldn’t fight, debate, but he was one hell of a good liar. Or so Maggie had told him.

The line of patients ringing the medical trailer hadn't dwindled down all morning. He hadn’t slept, every time his eyes closed he was haunted by Sasha’s corpse, bodies strewn across Alexandria’s streets rotting away. All he could smell was the undeniable stench of burnt flesh behind his trailer. All he could hear - groans of the dead, and the screams of the living.

He wouldn’t have been able to sleep anyway - or at least that’s what he used to justify himself - blood had still been matted in his hair and to his sweaty skin, too scared to do anything. The truth was, he’d just been too numb with fear to move. He didn't want to miss a thing, keep his eye off of the gate or the secret exits out of the community, just in case. His knife pressed into his hip.

He’d watched person after person go in with the slow rise of sun, Maggie and Carl had been two of the very first, to Jesus’ relief.

Daryl had been with him most of the night.

They hadn't spoken more than a sentence to each other, keen to soak up each other's presence. Moments of calm had been scarce, few and far-between, and Paul hadn't had a moment to think about anything other than battle strategy. Daryl had cleaned up the wound, washed out the grime and the soot and every trademark of the dead from his body. After, he'd lit up a smoke and didn't mention it when Paul's face buried in his neck.

“How’s it feelin’?”

He blinked, tilting his head mechanically. His gaze shifted from the scene outside of the window to Daryl who was gesturing to his shoulder.

Maybe it was the lack of sleep, or maybe it was the fact that something had actually gone right, but he thought Daryl looked a little lighter. Not happy, not by a long shot, but calm. Like he could, at least, breathe a little better.

His eyes were purpled, from exhaustion or stress. Probably both, Paul supposed. A small square stuck out below the fabric of his shirt, it took a moment to realise it was a dressing.

“Sore. Should I be feeling any other way?”

When he stood to collect the needle and stitches from beside bloodied flannel from the table, his hand hovered over Paul's good shoulder, tentative. He pulled it back.

“Nah, means it's clean.” Daryl snorted, lips quirking as he spoke into the empty space of the trailer. “Guess yer not dyin’ on us then.”

“Praise the lord.” Daryl let out a chuckle that bled of warmth. It settled light in Paul’s chest; it felt like much-needed safety and familiarity.

“Do you-” He spoke, voice broken, and only then did he realise he didn't even know the last time he’d done something as mundane as gotten a drink of water. “Is it over, for good, do you think?

Daryl scooted closer on the chair and wood scraped on tile flooring. “Hope so.”

Paul nodded with a sharp jerk of his head. Of course, none of them knew, it was a waiting game. He knew that, Daryl certainly did, but it didn’t stop his clutch at hope.

Daryl pulled open the packaged thread with careless precision, dipping the needle in alcohol so rich that Paul’s eyes glazed over. He cleared his throat, piercing the site, raised and angry. “How’d you know how to do this?”

The older ignored the hair in his face just as well as he did the question and Paul’s heavy stare.

“Stay still.”

He’d had stitches only a couple times in his life. The first, he was nine and he didn't understand why the doctor had held his hand the full time and told him how brave he’d been until he’d seen his parents leave under sheets of black and he under a new surname. The second, a fight at the age of fifteen that’d ended with his arm in a cast and being thrown back into the home. The third, after an argument with his partner at the time, spending the better part of his weekend out of his mind on everything that he couldn’t afford to waste money on. This was the fourth.

It’d happened at Alexandria last night; Negan’s men had arrived minus their absent ruler and forced their way in. He’d been caught up in flanking Carl, stemming the boy’s bleeding leg, that he hadn’t noticed himself being caught. The blade had barely punctured tissue, only thanks to Rosita snapping the guy’s neck. They’d watched him fall to gravel.

When he looked up, Daryl had already finished, there was a glass of water in the older man’s hand which he took in his own. Daryl was silent for the longest time, the only sound the synchronised rise and fall of their chests. “Taught myself how before, matter of havin' to.”

“I’m sorry.”

Daryl nodded, eyes flitting to the wall behind the scout.

“Had to learn how to fix myself up to. Probably not the same situation, ‘course.” He tried a smile that didn’t meet his eyes. “Recluse, remember? Still shitty.”

“Right.” Daryl bit into his cheek, looking up through his dark fringe.

Sensing obvious discomfort, Paul fell back into silence once more. He pulled a beaten hand into his and he found both men were shaking. He ran his thumb over a swollen knuckle and Daryl sucked in a wavery breath.

“Hey, we made it here. This.. _new world_.. Rick’s been promising everyone else. It’s a new day and all.” Paul wasn’t sure if he even believed the words he was breathing out, but Daryl needed them. Maybe he did, too.

“Shiny pile of shit wrapped up in make believe, is what it is.”

Paul found himself smiling, even grinning, despite himself. “Maybe. We’ll figure it out together, okay? I promise.”

His head fell onto Daryl’s shoulder, and if Paul felt tears drop onto his shirt, neither of the two men mentioned it again.

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: @PAULROVlA


End file.
